Regret nothing
by Yesterday's dreams
Summary: Doctor Lecter is asked to work on yet another psychological profile of a dangerous individual. Little does he know that this time, it will be more than personal. Very AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this story and I do not make any money. It's written for entertainment purposes only. Thank you.

Read and review, have fun and forgive grammar and spelling mistakes. English is my second language so feel free to let me know about anything amiss, I'd be happy to correct it. Thanks :)

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**Regret nothing - part 1**

Doctor Hannibal Lecter enjoyed great many things and among his varied hobbies and spare-time activities, three of them held special place in his heart: classical music, fine cuisine – in all of its aspects – and quality literature. Sadly, he had no use for the modern contemporary writers except for one and one only.

Humming, the good doctor flicked off lights in his office and at light pace he climbed the stairs into the second floor. Last of his troubled patients left, yet again in unfortunately agitated state and blubbering disgracefully, and Hannibal was slowly coming to the conclusion that his therapy was simply going nowhere.

It didn't bode well for this particular individual; it never did, though Hannibal was not interested in a good dinner now. In the fortnight, however… That would suit him better – he could host one of his famous dinner parties again.

This evening had the good doctor planned to relax and read. There were times when he could be found reading in his bed, particularly skimming through psychology magazines, but he felt that good literature should be read with proper respect – with lit fire, Cuban cigar and tumbler of fine whisky.

Lecter walked into his library and crouched down in front of the cold fireplace. He'd been looking forward this moment for the whole day, since the newest addition to his book collection had arrived in the morning. He had vast collection of literature, some pieces were very rare and very valuable, and yet he found himself enjoying and re-reading again and again only small part of it, namely the books written by C.S. Crain.

He had appreciated her writing long before she'd became widely known and successful, and he had been curious about the person behind the name long _long_ before anyone else started to notice how little was known about her. Lecter perfectly understood why anyone didn't wish to share information about themselves with others and Mrs. Crain had every right to be reclusive and live in anonymity if she chose so. He was not interested in how she lived her life, he was often wondering what kind of person she really was.

It would be something to know her in private life and yet it felt as if he _did_ know her; every time he held her books, it was like holding little pieces of her soul. Crain's work was captivating and Lecter simply enjoyed her frankness, even bluntness and down-to-earth, minimalistic way with words. The good doctor liked to get lost in her narratives, which was something he didn't do often. He never liked to lose sense of time and space, but her books… it was like visiting an old friend and time just flew by.

The phone rang: once, twice, for the third time. Lecter crossed to his desk and picked it up before the fourth ring could be heard.

"Yes?" He was not annoyed, of course, and the tone of his voice was pleasant, though the strict one word answer gave away that he was not happy about the disturbance. He looked at the thick tome titled _The Ranchers_ – the smell of newly printed book evading his senses.

"Hello, doctor Lecter. So sorry to bother you this late…"

"It's quite all right, Jack. How can I help you?"

The good doctor moved around the desk and sat down. Conversations with the head of Behavioral science unit tended to be long. He held no particular fondness for them or for Jack Crawford for that matter, but he tolerated the man as a necessary evil and their friendship as a price to be paid for his safety. At least Crawford was not a complete waste of air and had his uses.

"You see straight through me, doctor. I need help and I'm rather out of competent people right now with all that's going on." Jack chuckled and Hannibal sighed silently. Ah yes, there was always some serial killer causing mischief, diverting attention from all other suspicious happenings. Good thing, really, though sometimes it was rather tiresome.

"Of course, what it is?"

"Friend of mine got herself into nasty situation. Well, the situation found her, I should say. There've been some threats and stalking for years, and yesterday night she got assaulted. I moved her back to Washington for protection and I would really appreciate if you could work on that bastard's profile."

"It was going on for years and your friend did nothing to prevent her attack?" Lecter lifted his eyebrow mockingly. One finger started caressing the finely made leather spine of the book in front of him. There were paperback versions, of course, but that would just not do.

"Well, of course she took precautions, though you know how it is with famous people, doctor. You can't cut off their normal fans, that doesn't bode well for the business."

"Famous, Jack?" Now was doctor Lecter curious and he stopped the lazy movement. He took great pride in knowing everything about people in his life – what they liked, disliked how they reacted in specific situations. He laced his voice with carefully measured dose of teasing: "Sorry to say so, my friend, but you do not strike me as a man to have close relations to celebrities."

"Well… Closet celebrity." Jack coughed, embarrassed. "She's a writer… Actually, I think I saw her in your library, too. She uses the pseudonym of Claire Crain."

Lecter stopped breathing and watched the book – _her book_ – for a second, fingers lightly resting on the cover, mapping the letters of the author's name. He didn't register fully that Crawford of all people knew and was friends with Mrs. Crain – his mind was preoccupied with one thought only.

"Someone attacked Claire Crain?"

"Yeah. I'm so sorry I can't be there right now. It's personal, you see. Bella and CC are close; it's like an attack against my own family."

"Oh yes, I understand, Jack." Doctor Lecter abruptly stood up and moved two paces to the left where his liquor cabinet was. The telephone cable stretched to its limits while he poured himself two fingers of whisky. "You said you had her coming into Washington. Where exactly? Is it safe?"

"She's staying with Bella tonight, so yes, it's quite safe. I have a patrol there and nobody really knows about her whereabouts right now."

He sipped is drink slowly.

"I will help, of course, Jack. It will be a privilege to do so. Mrs. Crain is a very talented writer and I would hate to see her hurt and harassed any further. How much information do we have about the attacker? I'll need to see some of his letters."

"CC surely has it all with her and she can tell you everything you will need to know, doctor. I'll ring her that you will be coming to talk to her. Ok? When do you think that'd be?"

"Whenever it's suitable, Jack."

"Thanks, doctor Lecter, I'm really grateful… Oh, I gotta go, good-bye."

"It's not worth mentioning, Jack. Ta-ta."

He slowly put down the receiver and finished his drink, the book forgotten on his desk, the fireplace cold. Lecter then calmly walked out of the library, down the stairs, to the entrance hall. There he picked up his fedora and coat, his car keys. With right hand, he routinely patted his right pocket and felt the reassuring shape of his harpy. He never left the house barehanded.

It took him an hour to get to Crawford's home. He parked his car in a safe distance and walked towards it through side streets and backyards, quiet, unseen.

He was agitated and he could not explain this illogical urge to make sure that Mrs. Crain was in one piece and undamaged. He never met the woman in person, and even though he felt close to her thanks to her magnificent writings, these protective feelings didn't make any sense. The doctor would understand the displeasure he felt; violence against women was unspeakably ugly to him and by this single act only her attacker had signed his own death warrant, but this? How strange, indeed.

Lecter stopped in the shadow of an overgrown willow in the corner of Jack's backyard. Through the branches he then gazed at the handsome house with its lit windows and curtains drawn. He waited and he watched. It could be few seconds or minutes or half an hour, the doctor was patient enough, and finally he saw a silhouette flicker behind the windows. It was not Crawford's wife – he knew very well how she moved and this woman was moving differently. Then he saw another shadow, this time it was Bella.

The lights downstairs died, upstairs became alive and after a while, died again.

He breathed out and shook his head. He then checked the front yard, satisfied that the police car was there and the men inside were not dozing, and begun his journey back home.

Back at his own house, he went to sleep without any delays, though sleep didn't come this time. He was wide awake for hours, thinking, analyzing, and when the answers came, they didn't bring any peace.

He was complicated man, though he had simple reason for his behavior tonight: he wished Mrs. Crain to be alive and happy and most of all productive in her work. Her books were so honest, her way of saying things so achingly familiar. Reading her was like remembering memories hidden deep inside, like re-visiting places he knew only through someone else's eyes. He now understood why the author was granted his protection.

He didn't sit up, he didn't do anything. He did not regret. Not one bit and not even when his memory palace produced the sound of laughter he never played to himself or shown him an image he never recalled from its depths, from behind firmly shut and locked doors.

It'd been years since he had last visited this part of his palace where young and vibrant, painfully open and endearingly stubborn redhead dwelled.

Frowning into the darkness, doctor Lecter opened his eyes. He was not happy about his latest self-discovery. He had been lying to himself. Every time he opened his favorite books, he was sneaking back into times and places he'd forbid himself to go. He was not close to Mrs. Crain – her writings were transporting him back to the time when he…

He sat up and crossed to the window, looking out into the street. Ah well. He made sure those times could never be repeated and he did not regret that decision. If there were moments when he found himself gazing at the telephone, wishing it would ring and a familiar voice would say: "Hi, H," it was not regret he felt. If there were moments when he found himself thinking about quick drive down to Washington (and not with the intention to visit Jack), it was not regret he felt. If there were moments of unrest in the night, in his cold and way too large bed, it was not regret he felt.

Lecter hummed to himself and after a short minute of hesitation, warring internal battle with part of himself that wanted to be indulged in this whimsy, he retrieved _The Ranchers_ from his library, settled into his bed and began to read. The flow of simple pure language soothed him immediately and he felt asleep with a sound of unrestrained laughter ringing in his ears.

He regretted nothing. By casting her away, he protected his lamb.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this story and I do not make any money. It's written for entertainment purposes only. Thank you.

Read and review, have fun and forgive grammar and spelling mistakes ;)

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**Regret nothing - part 2**

Doctor Lecter got four large boxes full of letters and obscene drawings and sketches the very next morning. There was a note in confident handwriting accompanying them:

_Dear doctor Lecter, Jack called and said you might need these. He also said you wish to speak with me personally, though I have to apologize, this meeting has to postponed till the moment I can properly welcome you in my new home. I am sure you understand my situation and the need to feel secure again before I can be of any help to your work. I will let you know as soon as I'm settled and we can arrange the appointment needed. Thank you so very much for your kindness. C.C._

Lecter was pleasantly surprised by the note and carefully stored it in his drawer. The paper was of good quality and the ink came from fine fountain pen. He detected traces of feminine hand cream on the surface and found the fragrance pleasing. It only further strengthened his decision to help Mrs. Crain. People of fine manners and good tastes were so rare.

Reading through the threats took him two days and when he was finished, he had a very distinct feeling that Jack Crawford would not get the chance to capture this … despicable _thing_ alive. The doctor completed the profile on the third day and started discreetly little hunt of his own. The man obsessed with Mrs. Crain was obviously close to her and all Lecter needed now was to talk to the woman in person. After that her stalker problem would be no longer a problem at all. It was only a small thing he would gladly do for his favorite author.

What presented more of a challenge was to get hold of the writer herself.

Mrs. Crain wanted to settle in her own home first, which doctor Lecter perfectly understood so he was not displeased by the delay her house hunting had caused. Although he could not stop wondering what the real reason why the writer insisted on postponing their meeting was. There could be several possibilities that had crossed his mind; she could be still upset, she was ashamed and or didn't wish to deal with the unpleasant situation. All of them were to be expected from a woman who had been attacked, of course, and yet neither _fitted_ her personality.

When a week had passed, doctor Lecter re-read _The Ranchers_ twice, he had his dinner menu planned in detail and the false profile for Jack finished. There was still no response from Mrs. Crain and the good doctor was feeling a little snubbed. He was rather renowned psychiatrist and he was sure that Jack must have stressed his brilliance to Mrs. Crain in an attempt to reassure her of their capability to prevent further attacks.

He tried to help her, she should try to cooperate.

On Tuesday afternoon he called Jack's house. Poor Crawford was still busy in Minnesota so it was no surprise that the phone was picked up by his wife.

"Hello, my dear. I hope I am not calling at an inconvenient time?"

"Hi, doctor, of course not. Jack's not there, though…"

"I was hoping to catch up with Mrs. Crain. I trust you know about the unpleasant business we are dealing with…"

"Yeah, Jack told me you are working on the profile. I'm sure between the two of you he'll be caught in no time. Honestly, I couldn't understand CC when she insisted she could handle it herself…"

"Did she?" Doctor Lecter chuckled. "Well, I have no doubt that Mrs. Crain is capable woman, but there are certain situations when more forceful approach is needed."

"Just make sure you and Jack kick his ass and I'll be perfectly happy about it. CC too."

"I'll do my best, Mrs. Crawford." His serious response provoked bark of laughter on the other side. Crawford's wife was the better half of her husband. "Is by any chance Mrs. Crain in there with you?"

"Dear god, no. That woman hates to depend on somebody. CC is happily busy in her own house. Didn't she call you? About the meeting, I mean."

"Yes, of course she did… However, I have to confess I managed to misplace the note with her new address and I don't have any way of contacting her… Maybe you could safe me, Bella?"

Mrs. Crawford gave him the address and so it happened that Hannibal found himself facing handsome old townhouse with tall windows and blue curtains and dark mahogany door with elaborate knocker. He climbed the seven stairs that led to it and knocked.

After several minutes the door opened and doctor Lecter blinked down at a seriously looking boy around twelve or thirteen years of age. He was not very tall, slim and lightly built, his hair was deep reddish-brown color, his face healthily tanned and the striking pale blue eyes that were watching the doctor were easily recognizable. Something in Lecter stirred, it felt like he was hit by a speeding train.

"May I help you, sir?" Very polite boy.

"Hello. Is this Mrs. Crain's house?"

The boy straightened and narrowed his eyes, suspiciously sizing Lecter up.

"Depends on who is asking, sir." And very blunt, too.

"Yes, it would seem so." The doctor nodded slowly, disturbed by the achingly familiar air around the boy. "I am doctor Hannibal Lecter, and I came here to talk to Mrs. Crain about the situation she finds herself in."

"You're Uncle Jack's friend, the profiler." The boy nodded in almost the exact way like Hannibal, and his eyes lit up. Now he looked at the good doctor with much more enthusiasm, wonder and curiosity. He stressed: "The _psychiatrist_ doctor Lecter from _Baltimore_, right?"

"The very same. And who are you, may I ask?"

"Theodore Crain, sir." Theodore offered his right hand and doctor Lecter squeezed it lightly with the most solemn expression. "I had to make sure who you are, you see, before I could let you talk to my mother."

"That's perfectly understandable. Nice to meet you, Theodore." The feeling accompanying their brief touch could be compared to a stroke of lightning, Lecter's fingers were tingling, his heart – was it even possible – started to beat a little faster.

"Nice to meet you, too. Everyone calls me T.H., though… you can too, if you want to. Please come in, mum's not expecting you, but that's fine, I guess."

The boy stepped aside and closed the door behind them. The doctor was too busy watching his young host to pay any attention to his surroundings, and let himself to be lead into the study room where Mrs. Crain was busily writing her newest draft – if the clicking of keyboard was anything to go by.

The boy's frame was similar to Hannibal's when he was that age, and their eyes were exactly the same shape and color. He had the Lecter jaw and eyebrows and walked on tip of his toes, like a dancer ready to leap into the air at any moment… and yet the movements of his shoulders and arms as he walked were very much like his mother's – and so were his reddish hair and cheekbones and nose. His darker skin complexion was inherited from Hannibal's mother side of the family. Theodor was handsome boy, indeed.

Lecter's mind managed to put all these facts together and with it came also the conclusion that he knew perfectly well who was on the other side of the door, and whose books he _loved_ for all these years…

"Mum?"

Theodor poked his head inside with Hannibal standing behind him, partly hidden in the shadows of the hallway. He could see inside of the study clearly, though, and it still came as a shock to actually see the familiar figure sitting behind the writing desk with sunlight streaming all around her, making her hair glowing like fiery halo.

"Yes, honey?"

The clicking stopped and she looked up, towards them. Noticing the figure behind her son, she half stood up. "Who is it, T.H.? You should know better than to let inside anyone you don't know."

Doctor Lecter was sure now that his heart was beating faster than was normal for him. She was vibrant as ever, beautiful despite the long years that separated this woman from the girl he had known, and even more so; her face matured and there were slight lines from laughter around her mouth and eyes which shone with brilliance just like they did thirteen years ago. He felt dazed.

"It's no stranger, mum." The boy sauntered in lazily and grinned. "It's doctor Lecter."

With these words, he lazily sauntered in and grinned: "Well, hello Clarice."

Her eyes widened slightly and her gaze quickly shifted to her son and back to Lecter – both of them were presenting identical grins to her. Her brief shock faded and she moved around her desk and towards him, offering her hand.

"Hello, doctor Lecter."

Hannibal kissed the back of her hand, breathing in deeply the smell of her skin. Underneath her pleasant hand cream he could detect scent that was purely hers. Live it was so much _better_ than in his memory palace. It was intoxicating, it was maddening and doctor Lecter was not a man to lose his head easily. Or at all. Now the levees were breaking.

"How are you, my dear? Considering the circumstances, of course." He looked into her face and was greeted with steely eyes and neutral expression. The good doctor was sure that his own face was mildly curious and not a single sign of his inner turmoil was seeping out. It was bubbling, seething, burning. Was it… anger? No, it was more, much, much more than simple anger._ It hurt_.

"Fine, doctor, just fine. Theodor, have you finished your homework?" Clarice went to the boy and rearranged is hair. Her hand was shaking and this fact was noticed by all three of them. Hannibal felt a wave of satisfaction, which only minimally quenched the burning vicious need to lash out, bite and hurt and tear.

"Muuum…" T.H. wined and yet gave her a very sweet and caring smile before he ducked away, messing his hair slightly again. "Almost."

She shook her head a nodded towards the door. "How about finishing it now?"

"Yeah, I think I will. Bye, doctor Lecter. It was nice to meet you." The boy smiled tightly and disappeared, all the while sending funny glances their way. He had the audacity to wink before he closed the door shut.

Clarice slowly sat down on her sofa under one of the tall windows and waited till her son was safely out of hearing range and then she offered a weak smile. "I haven't expected you, doctor. Would you like to sit down?"

"He is mine." He would not like to sit down. Lecter took two steps towards Mrs. Crain and towered over her glowing form. The bright hair proved to be distracting and he had to clasp his hands tightly behind his back, so he would not reach for her, not to choke the life out of her, not to bite her, not to taste her again.

"No."

"Don't lie! You know I can always tell!"

She turned away from him, partly facing the window. From this angle and in the unforgiving light he could see faint purple marks on her throat forming the shape of someone's hand. Another illogical wave of hot anger assaulted him, this time towards the attacker.

"Theodor is not yours, never was. He is mine, Hannibal, and mine alone." Clarice spat and turned, her eyes blazing. "Now, let's get this over with, shall we? I trust you read the letters. I included everything, was it helpful at all?"

"He did this to you?" The doctor lost his battle and reached out, gently tugging the neckline of her nice blouse away, fingers caressing the abused flesh. It seemed he couldn't concentrate anymore on one thing. "What else he did? What he tried?"

She flinched and moved from his touch.

"Haven't you read the official record?"

"No. _Answer_ me, please."

Hannibal sat down next to her while she solemnly looked into his face. She traced the lines there, every one of his features, and finally she lifted her eyes to his.

"Attempted rape, if you really need to know. He surprised me from behind, in my own bedroom no less. We fought and Theodore came running inside and bashed him over the head with a poker. Before I got the handcuffs, he bolted out and disappeared. End of story. Satisfied?"

"I'm going to kill him." The good doctor stated calmly. The closeness to Clarice seemed to be helping. His heartbeat slowed a little, his breathing was regular. The burning anger was turning into cold fury focused elsewhere – not towards the woman beside him. He could think more clearly.

The statement produced a choked laugh.

"Oh, no, thanks, but thanks. You will do no such a thing, doctor Lecter. Jack will find him and then he will rot in jail."

"Why is it Crawford who you feel comfortable letting handle the situation? How do you even know each other? Why didn't you let _me_ know immediately? Why didn't you tell me?" The doctor got back to the matter of Theodor, though he wanted to know why she hadn't notified him about her stalker situation, too. It would be a natural thing to let him know. About everything. Doctor watched her and compared her visage now with the pictures of her from before and then compared them with the imagine of Theodore. He would have solved it quickly. _Everything_.

Clarice shook her head and sighed. "Are you kidding me? Seriously, H?"

"I have the right to know the answers to all of these questions, Clarice. You will answer me _now_." Hannibal was cheated and it hurt. It hurt very much, most of all because he didn't expected to be confronted with anything like this, ever, and was sorely unprepared to face the accompanying surges of emotions.

"Quit acting like spurned lover, please. I never took you of all people to be prone to hysterics." Her shaking hand covered her face.

"Hysterics?"

Clarice smiled slightly at the offended tone. "Yes, hysterics. Snap out of it. This is a nasty business, but it doesn't concern you personally. Be like any other ex, please. Indifferent."

"Theodore concerns me personally very much." He could not be indifferent. Didn't she understand? It was impossible. Till this very moment there was nobody as close to him as the boy somewhere in the house working on his homework. Till this very moment there was nobody who mattered more than him and the woman who had given him to Hannibal.

"He is not…"

"I wouldn't even finish that sentence if I were you, my dear. Do you think me blind?"

"He had a father, doctor Lecter, and I do not wish for you to come and destroy that imagine. You simply won't."

It took him a second to process the meaning. Yes, Theodore said his name is Crain, not Starling and certainly not Lecter. That meant that Clarice's pseudonym was not pseudonym at all but the name of her husband… husband, which was not him. Oh. She had used past tense, so the husband wouldn't be an obstacle, _good_.

"He knows I am his father." It was a clever boy, after all; curious and mischievous and intelligent, polite and well mannered, when it suited him, and painfully honest and blunt all the rest of the time. He was the perfect mix of his parent's traits.

"He knows you are his biological father, yes. I've never kept secrets from him… oh, god, this is not the time I want to talk about this. I was going to call you later."

"And I am supposed to trust you on this, my dear?" Lecter asked airily. "It's rather hard to believe you, after this. You kept secrets from me without any difficulty. Would have been so hard to pick up a phone and call me?"

There was a beat of silence and then she simply whispered: "You are not going to lecture me on keeping secrets. You have no right to say anything to me! Get out, doctor Lecter."

Hannibal was certain he hadn't heard her correctly, they were far from finishing the conversation, but she gladly repeated:

"You have no idea what it was like for me, H.! Do you remember what you did and said to me? Do you? It would be a blessing to never see you face again, yet share something as precious as my baby with you! Now get out! GET OUT!"

Mrs. Crain was teary and angry, yet her voice was deadly cold and doctor Lecter did get out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this story and I do not make any money. It's written for entertainment purposes only. Thank you.

Read and review, have fun and forgive any potential mistakes; English is my second language, though I had help of a great beta. Sephaya, thank you.

* * *

**Regret nothing - part 3**

Hannibal Lecter, renowned psychiatrist and external consultant and profiler for the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI, was a complicated man capable of horrifying inhuman things. Some of his esteemed colleagues would have labeled him a 'monster', for the lack of any other term their feeble minds could produce, and some would have said 'sociopath' trying to categorize him. If only his esteemed _blind_ colleagues had been able to see behind Doctor Lecter's perfect façade, they would have been more than simply shocked.

He got home in the early morning hours of the following day. After he had hurriedly left Mrs. Crain's house, he'd been driving around Washington for seven long hours, passing her house in the process exactly twelve times. Lecter had respected her wish to leave the house but he just hadn't been able to force himself leave them completely. Just like he had been driving in circles, his mind was still spinning, too.

Hannibal might be a complicated man, but the emotion he currently felt was a very basic one. It all came back to Theodore and his mother and his fierce need to guard them, to care for them. _His_. They were his, now, and nothing could and would change it. All the inhuman things he was capable of would be put to good use, finally. There would not be anything like that cold winter so long ago, no axe would fall. Nobody was going to take them from him. He would not allow some deranged pathetic thing to put its hands all over the mother of his son.

_Actually, coming to think about it, nobody else will get the opportunity either._

The doctor blinked at that thought. He closed the door behind him and climbed the stairs, heading for his library. Inside, he located the shelf with Clarice's books and skimmed through the titles, fingers subconsciously caressing the spines, the letters… twelve books, with the thirteenth on his bedside table. Thirteen books for thirteen lost years. _How fitting._

The good doctor ignored the needs of his tired body and settled in his armchair in front of the fireplace, closing his eyes and letting the doors of his memory palace swing open.

* * *

Doctor Lecter, forty three, leaned back in the chair he was sitting on and closed his eyes. _What had possessed him to agree? Why had he let himself be persuaded to suffer this?_

Because he was the good doctor and if his close 'friend' needed help urgently, it was only logical to offer his assistance. Sometimes, keeping his façade up was so exhausting, though truth to be told, in this case he had jumped at the opportunity.

He never actually believed a time such as this might come – but here it was. He had taken a long vacation, revisited all the available music performances in Baltimore and Washington several times, hosted a dinner party every month and treated his patients with the utmost care. He drew and he read… and he was utterly, maddeningly _bored_. Doctor Lecter was never idle, he could always find things to do, but he just hadn't found anything suitable to dilute the sense of stagnation that had overtaken his life in the last few months. He was so bored that serving a nightshift at the ER had sounded fun.

There had been a reason why Lecter had stopped practicing medicine, however. The smell was unbearable and the tediousness too much to take. His mind was the only place he could retreat to in this hellish place. Hannibal then and there decided he would not help Doctor Malcolm ever again.

Only twenty minutes and Malcolm's shift would end. He could barely wait, so he focused his thoughts on the breakfast he was going to get. There was a rather nice place two streets from the hospital – nothing extraordinary, but suitable enough with rather good coffee and a pleasantly polite staff. Inside his memory palace, Hannibal started to flip through their menu. Suddenly there was a knock on the door followed by a clear voice: "Doc?"

"Ah, yes? Come in." He tried not to sound annoyed, though he might have not succeeded if the slow opening of the door was any indication.

A red-headed female police officer, head bowed, moved inside, dragging her bulky colleague with her. The man looked dazed and was leaning on her petite frame too much for the doctor's liking. He had one hand suspiciously low on her back; it was rude to be taking such an obvious advantage and grope a girl who was trying to help him.

"Let me help you, Officer." He rose and took the man from her, guiding him to the examination bed. Once the policeman was down, he passed out immediately— perhaps because the doctor had pressed a certain sensitive spot that rendered him unconscious.

"Thanks, Doc."

He nodded briefly without paying her much attention, examining the patient instead and carefully noting his name and rank. He could invite him to one of his dinner parties; as the main course. Lecter could hardly tolerate disrespect towards women. Then he asked, "What happened?"

"He got hit over the head. Ran straight to a door, which swung open in the exact moment he reached them. It was kinda funny."

"It's rather mean to laugh at your colleague's misfortune." Lecter stated brusquely. Y_outh these days_.

"It is, yes, although Chad is a jerk, so a little laugh is better than imprint of my hand on his sorry face."

The previously concealed accent now rang true and Hannibal raised his head to see the young officer properly for the first time. She looked very much out of place in Malcolm's large, sterile, white medical office; small and lithe, her hair was a vibrant brown-red color and her eyes sparkled with mischief in her pale delicate face. She grinned broadly and winked:

"Can't let random guys grope me just like that, you know."

"I see." was the only response he gave. There was something in her eyes that caught his attention – some sort of appealing depth which he would not mind exploring a bit more.

"Oh, did I embarrass you, Doctor… Malcolm?" She looked down at the name tug he was wearing. "Sorry, it's just that the boys at the station are a little blunt, and it rubs off on me, I guess."

The name coming from her mouth sounded just wrong, so the doctor felt compelled to correct her, "I'm Doctor Lecter, actually."

"Officer Starling." She reached out with her hand and Hannibal squeezed it lightly. He still held her hand in his, and Starling was inspecting his long fingers, when she continued: "So, Doc, why are you wearing a name tag that's not yours?"

Lecter's fingers tingled pleasantly on those places she touched. _How very curious_.

"I don't think it's any of your business, my dear." He almost reluctantly withdrew his hand and focused on the other policeman – the one that was not amusingly honest and instead was very much unconscious.

"Sounds like a pretty interesting story, though." He knew she was looking at him with bright knowing eyes.

"Does it?" Hannibal felt a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth but he didn't allow it to escape, however, his own eyes sparkled roguishly. It was a good thing she couldn't see.

"Well, what would you say to a deal, Doc? I won't tell anyone about this, and you will keep my habit of cheekily laughing at the misfortunes of my fellow officers to yourself."

Her accent should have granted on his nerves, but Lecter was fascinated by the way it perfectly complemented her candid speech. He looked up to see her watching him intently, responding without words to his unspoken signals, and slowly smiled. The little bird was enticing; a wave of fresh air in his dank world of polite hypocrisy. He would not mind exploring _her_, not at all.

"You have a deal, Officer, although I do have a condition." Hannibal proclaimed. He was not unfamiliar with these waters even though the doctor was not entirely sure what had prompted him to this sort of action.

"Yeah?" Young Starling obviously knew how to navigate them, too.

"Breakfast, I'll buy you a breakfast." When he said it, he felt like a college boy again and smirked when his exclamation earned him an honest un-lady like chuckle.

"Sure thing, Doc. When do you plan to do that?" She lifted an eyebrow challengingly.

"Malcolm's shift ends in ten minutes. Yours?"

"In ten minutes."

"Then we are having breakfast in half an hour." He replied matter-of-factly.

"Right." Starling laughed aloud and her laugh, just like almost everything about her, was full, vibrant and lively. _Lovely_. "I'm gonna call Chad's wife to pick him up and then we are free to go, Doc."

Lecter nodded his head and watched Starling leave. As the door closed behind her, he looked down at Chad and murmured: "You just might get lucky; maybe I'll postpone our dinner party, my friend."

It took him another moment to detect the change after she had left Malcolm's medical office. He breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled, the sudden lack of a strong feminine scent making him scowl. He hadn't noticed her delicate fragrance, though he had reacted to it, obviously. In that moment Hannibal Lecter acknowledged fully that, as amusing as Officer Starling's personality was, he was attracted to the cheeky little vixen on a purely physical level, too.

* * *

The phone rang, disturbing the good doctor from his reminiscences. He toyed with the idea of simply letting it ring, but he eventually rose from his armchair and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Doctor Lecter." The voice had resonated within his memory palace just moments ago and now he was hearing it in reality. He closed his eyes and exhaled, one hand resting on his desk, partly supporting his weight as he leaned on it.

"Hello, Clarice. What can I do for you?" He spoke softly, her younger face mingling in his mind eye with her mature one.

"I actually want to apologize for yesterday, I'm so sorry I screamed at you like that." He could imagine her sheepish expression clearly and he smiled.

"It's quite all right, my dear. I have to confess I was not in the right frame of mind either."

Doctor Lecter was far from it even now, he was sure, though he restrained himself from sounding anything but perfectly collected. It just wouldn't do to upset her further. Talking was always preferable to yelling.

"Yes, well, I'd like us to be civil to each other." Clarice breathed out quietly and Hannibal stilled. There was a beat of silence in which he mused on the way how to approach this particular subject, for he was sure of one thing only – 'civil' was not the label he wished to use to describe their future relationship. 'Intimate' was more appropriate.

"If that is your wish, then of course we will." All good things to those who wait – he needed to be patient. Thirteen years was a long time in which Clarice had obviously managed to get married – now that annoyed him greatly; and somehow got rid of her husband – which sounded much better.

"Good. I need to talk to you about Theodore, H. Would you like to have dinner with us tonight?"

"It would be my pleasure. I'll bring the wine."

"Of course you will." He could hear the laughter in her voice and he smiled. "See you later, Doctor."

After Clarice hung up, he headed for his wine cabinet and carefully selected just the right bottle, keeping in mind her tastes – white wine, sweet and full. His next steps led to his office where he made several quick calls, postponing all of his planned appointments for today, and then he finally settled in his bed to catch up on a few hours of sleep – yet sleep refused to come.

* * *

Hannibal had begun to refer to his life in two terms: the _Clarice Age_ and the _Pre-Clarice Period_. Everything before Clarice had been bleak and gray and boring, devoid of life and fun in general. There had been things he had enjoyed doing, of course, yet the activities his Clarice usually planned consisted of things he found much more enjoyable than ever before. Never would he have thought how much fun gardening was, or how pleasant an experience a simple visit to the cinema to see a movie of questionable quality could be. Of course, he had to concede that the company was affecting his opinions greatly and that he actually had done hardly any gardening at all and didn't even remember what the movie was about.

The good doctor fondly smiled in remembrance of dark spaces and secluded spots under large trees. The smile faded quickly, though.

In the last four months of their time together, he reluctantly dared to expose the poor girl to the bad influences of his so-called friends and Baltimore's high society and she had survived with nothing more than few huffs here and there and hearty laughs at the expanses of some of his acquaintances. She even started to enjoy some of his musical tastes and tolerate a few of his colleagues (Doctor Chilton was not amongst them, to Hannibal's great satisfaction). In simple words, he had dared to let her become a part of his life and he had done so gladly. However, there was one thing that didn't quite fit into the sweet world of the Clarice Age.

The dinner parties became an obstacle in their relationship – or more precisely getting the special ingredients for the main courses of his famous dinner parties was the problem. Clarice was Officer Starling during her working hours and there was no doubt in Hannibal's mind that sooner or later her observant nature would notice something amiss – if it hadn't happened already. He hadn't given her any reasons to scrutinize his behavior yet, though there were times when her eyes would follow him around the room, when her brows would wrinkle and she would ask: "What's your plan for tonight?"

Just as she had asked in the morning, spread out on his bed and blinking at him sleepily while he had prepared for the day.

_Why, I'm going to dispose of the rude clerk who dared to pinch your lovely posterior, my dear. What would you like for dinner tomorrow?_ He had a feeling that such an answer would not work out well. Slowly and painfully, Hannibal had started to realize that this could not continue much longer.

He parked his car in the garage and took out of the trunk the package of meat he had obtained just an hour ago.

Hannibal had reviewed all of the possibilities during the last weeks of how to avoid the ending of his Clarice Age and none of them appeared to be feasible. There was no way a serial killer could stay in a healthy relationship with a police officer and yet he did not wish to let her go.

The doctor stilled and listened – someone was inside his house, he could hear them moving in the ground floor hall, where the floorboards squealed near the front door. Of course, given the fact that it was well past midnight, there could be only two explanations of who it was.

He put the package in the cooling box again and let the Harpy slip into his palm, making his way around the car and into the house.

The lights were off, though as he entered, he could see her clearly. So, no thieves, pity.

Clarice was sitting on the lower stairs of his staircase with her side resting against the wall, her bright eyes reflecting the dim street light pouring through the windows. She was silently watching him and her face looked much too pale and curiously expressionless. His Clarice was very expressive and Hannibal immediately knew something was wrong, aside from the fact she was not supposed to be here tonight.

"Hello, Clarice. What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?"

"Where have you been?" She whispered.

"Clarice, my dear." He was momentarily at a loss and he took a step closer, the Harpy disappearing back into his sleeve. "I was meeting some friends, I told you; Doctor Chilton invited me."

"Don't." She stopped him with a raised hand and shifted, sitting straight. There was something raw and ragged about her as if she was hurting. "You were not there, Hannibal. Tell me the truth – where have you been tonight?"

Lecter raised his eyebrows at her and shook his head. How had she come to this conclusion? Had she called Chilton for confirmation? That was truly galling, even though Hannibal was guilty of this particular lie, he felt offended that Clarice would go behind his back like this. He was not some kind of cheating wretch for her to act in such a manner. "Are you going to interrogate me like a common criminal, too, Officer Starling?"

"I just might, if you are not honest with me. Look me in the eye and just _tell_ me. I can take whatever it is."

Beat of silence followed and Hannibal painfully realized how unstable the foundations of their relationship were. Truth would destroy her more than anything else could – she was his little lamb, strong in great many ways, and fragile in so many others.

_So pure, so young._ He could not possibly lie to her for the weeks, months, maybe even years to come. He could not possibly expose her to his darker world. Clarice would flee, horrified, and he would be forced to – no, he did not wish to finish that train of thought. If by some miracle or cruel twist of fate she could know the truth and stay, there was always the chance he would get caught.

The idea of his own public shaming didn't disturb him in the slightest, _hers_ he could not bear and would not allow. With calm detachment Hannibal came to a decision. For once, he would not be selfish, though he would certainly be sorry to see Clarice go.

"What would you like to hear, Clarice?"

"Listen, Doc, just quit these games. It's not funny anymore. If we are going to get serious, I don't want to have any secrets between us, ok?"

"Just like your mummy and daddy?" He mocked. Although Clarice loved her parents with all her heart, she preferred to love them from Washington while they stayed somewhere in a small town in West Virginia. Mr. and Mrs. Starling were simple folk and had never understood her intelligence and drive.

"Don't drag my parents into this, H, but yeah, something like that."

"I have to confess, this is becoming tedious, Clarice. Please excuse me if I am as blunt as you usually are." Hannibal steeled himself for what was to come. "I do enjoy our nightly activities very much, my dear, and the daily ones are pleasurable, too, though I do not wish for our affair to be anything more than it currently is. I am not looking for a permanent attachment, nor do I want, as you put it, to get serious."

She immediately sprung to her feet and slapped him hard. "Alright, Doc, thanks for informing me, I'm glad we're clear on that."

He slowly turned his head back and looked at her almost fondly. Even in the semi-dark, he could see the tears, hear her heavy breathing. He could also hear the steel in her voice, the resolution reflecting in those tearful orbs. _That's my girl_.

"You're welcome." He smiled slightly. She had not disappointed and his cheek did not simply sting, but hurt as if she had used her fist instead of palm. By that fact itself he knew that his little Starling would be all right – hurting for a few months perhaps, but eventually all right and on her way to becoming the Chief of Police or whatever her heart's desire would be.

"Yeah…"

_Stubborn, beautiful creature._ She passed him without a second glance, her head held high, and she then slipped quietly outside, carefully closing the door behind her. _Fly, my Starling, fly._

Lecter stood at the bottom of his stairs and watched the door for a long moment. He did not regret this even though it suddenly hurt to breathe and somewhere in his throat a scream was forming. _He did not._


End file.
